


Kindness

by EonAO3



Category: Bucky Barnes - Fandom, Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, the winter soldier - Fandom
Genre: Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Captain America: Civil War (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-12 08:19:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10486386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EonAO3/pseuds/EonAO3
Summary: Escaped from HYDRA and on the run, the Winter Soldier looks for the familiar to find himself and his past.





	1. Chapter 1

At first he reasoned it was fear that kept her still for a moment; stopped her from being able to call for help. A sort of shock, that maybe she didn't realize the danger she could be in. But after that first hesitating minute of wide eyed, agape silence, when she set her keys and purse on the table, slowly, and took a cautious step forward, it was him who flinched. Muscles coiling with the last bit of fight he had left, he was the one who instinctively retreated two steps, keeping a reactionary gap and clutching the hilt of his knife so hard his knuckles were white.

The hiss of his drawn in breath and teeth bared in pain giving the warning that stalled her for only a moment, she held out her upturned and empty palms to him. A peace offering; a show of intent, that slowed the pounding in his chest enough that he could hear again and take a long breath. He knew better than to sheath his weapon, but his grip relaxed and the color came back to his skin. She wasn't a threat. She was unarmed and unprepared. A petite, but fit, woman in her late 20s or early 30s, he could get by her with ease, if he had anywhere to go.

He only vaguely knew where he was. The third of a five story walk up in Brooklyn, the apartment to the right of the stairs, D. He didn't understand why, but there was a comfort the shape of the living room provided and a thin familiarity of the hallway to his right. Something drew him there, something in the back of his mind he didn't quite understand. The facade of this building flashed across his mind and, when he finally managed to find his way there, 11 days and more than 7 hours after jumping into the Potomac and being on the run, he thought he might be safe there.

The glint of the knife told her where to go. Reflecting the mix of street and moon light glowing through the windows, it waved her away from the door and insisted she stay back. He edged along the wall, needing it for support as much as navigation, putting himself at the advantage of the open floor of the entryway. She did as the blade told, following the cue from his leveled eyes for where to stop and stand. And then they were there- in a standoff that offered no threats. He studied his opponent and assessed the angles of the apartment. She watched him, hands open and eyes a little worried.

He was wearing down. He'd barely eaten or slept the last three days. SHIELD or HYDRA or someone he didn't yet know had been at his heel and basic human needs were a luxury he couldn't afford. The cold dish of leftover chicken he'd helped himself to in the kitchen had barely been opened long enough to swallow a bite before the scrape of the key in the door set him moving for a position of advantage. Without the care of the scientists and technicians of HYDRA, and his food and sleep deprived state, his wounds were slow to heal. It was the quick succession of three drops of blood from the grazing wound of a bullet across his forearm that tapped out the only noise in the apartment, as it fell down to the hardwood floor.

It was that sound that broke their stare from each other's eyes. He transferred the knife to his gloved left hand and folded his right arm up to his chest, elevating the wound in expectation that the crack in the gash would clot itself shut again. She looked between the spots on the floor and his arm.

"You're hurt."

The words were an invitation for an explanation as much as a statement of the obvious. Maybe it was part of her process for rationalizing the situation. In a moment he understood it was really an offer of help.

"There's a first aid kit in the bathroom...under the sink."

His eyes flitted down the hall and then back to her. Underneath his shirt, he felt a line of blood creep slowly down toward his elbow. With a flick of his wrist, the knife told her to get the kit. She moved down the hallway in a measured way that showed she had no intention of trying to flee or a trick to try. He followed her, several feet behind and touching his shoulder into the wall a few times to steady his steps.

She snapped on the bathroom light and he stood in the hallway, back propped against the wall and knife at the ready near his hip. The pale green of the tile and milky glass sconces illuminating the room from above the mirror pricked at his mind, trying to draw something forth he couldn't quite pin down. Like a lion watching his prey, his eyes were fixed on her as she crouched down to the cabinet below the sink and pulled out a white plastic box with a red cross on the top. Staying low, she turned on her toes, showing him the box and reaching it out to him. He paused for a moment, unwilling to give up his weapon and knowing it unwise to lower his wounded limb.

"I can help you."

He reassessed. There was no tension in her body. Her posture was open and her eyes unwavering, direct and showing no deception. Her voice was even, yet soft, and she was still at the physical disadvantage to him, even in his weakened state. He finally gave her a nod.

She stood up, moving aside and gesturing for him to sit on the side of the tub. He hesitated, double checking the cues he'd read, before trudging into the little room. He eased himself down, a small groan of pain and tiredness escaping his lips. He settled on the porcelain edge and rested the knife in his gloved fist prominently on his thigh to remind her he was still in charge. He saw her visibly swallow, as she inched closer and perched on the side of the toilet seat lid, balancing the kit on her knees and opening the box.

She sifted through the contents of the box briefly before finding gauze, tape, and antiseptic wipes. Broadcasting her movement with her eyes in the direction of the towel rack on the wall, she half stood to grab a hand towel and laid it over his lap for his bleeding arm to set on. She twisted in her seat, opening the medicine cabinet and stretching for a bottle of peroxide on the lowest shelf before turning back to face him. She motioned with her chin, letting him know she needed to see under the sleeves of his jacket and shirt.

He hesitated again, considering the best way to remove the obstruction to his wound without putting himself at a tactical disadvantage. She moved her hands up and forward, stopping halfway between herself and his arm to suggest she do the work for him. He nodded his permission and she leaned up to carefully move the right side of his jacket off his shoulder and hold the cuff for him to pull his arm out. The jacket slid to hang behind him into the tub and the sleeve of his maroon henley was stained brown and a deep wine color from the fresh blood and the old before it. It stuck to his skin and pulled at the wound when she tried to tug the sleeve to his elbow. The clenching fist and grimace he made stopped her from moving any further and made her reevaluate her approach. Instead, she pulled the sleeve down again and held the cuff for him to pull out of and piled the loose half of the shirt to sit on his shoulder.

She set to work, with gentle hands and concentrating eyes. Wiping and rinsing at the tear the bullet made, she was apologetic when she saw him twitch and flinch at the discomfort she caused him. He knew the wound needed to be sewn shut and she had said as much herself, when it was finally clean enough to be seen objectively. But this wasn't a hospital and she made due by holding the edges of the graze closed with butterfly bandages underneath a few layers of gauze squares and tape. She gave the same meticulous attention to a short cut tracing the arch of his left eyebrow and the scrapes along the sharp line of his bruised jaw.

Wadding up all the open packaging from her spent supplies and dropping it in the little garbage can near the sink, she waited to see what the knife would tell her to do next. It gave no immediate direction. She reached out slowly for the blood streaked towel on his lap and let it fall into the sink beside her.

"I have some clean clothes, if you need them."

The kindness again. It prompted the knife's next command, sending her to the hallway again ahead of him. Putting down the first aid kit on the floor, she stood and moved back into the hall. He took the opportunity of her turned back to quickly shed the other half of his shirt and jacket before stepping out to meet her. She tipped her head and jerked her thumb for him to follow her further down the hall. He felt like he knew the way.

The light came on, showing a bedroom with basic furnishings- a queen size bed, night stands and dresser. She went to a double door closet in the corner near the window and he watched from the doorway. She clicked on a single light bulb in the closet and rummaged around for a moment. She stepped back into his clear view with a blue t-shirt and a black hooded sweatshirt. She fumbled for a second, catching a view of his metal arm before gently laying the shirts on the corner of the bed and backing away to the wall farthest from them, gesturing for him to take them.

"These should fit."

He considered the clothes for a moment, before looking back suspiciously to her. He checked her hand. No ring.

"He won't be back. ...Been gone a while."

It was quiet.

"No one's coming."

Weapon clasped tight, he moved to the bedside with his eyes tracking hers. He finally spoke, warning her not to move and the shake of her head promised she wouldn't. He believed her, against his instinct and training, and secured the dagger into its holster on his belt. The move complete, he gave her another once over, assessing her opportunities and judging she had none. He grabbed at the shirt, pulling it quickly overhead, and then the sweatshirt, hissing when the push of his arm through the fabric pulled at the gash in his arm. The sound triggered something, a maternal instinct perhaps, that made her take a half step forward. The knife was back in his palm before she had even finished shifting her weight and he heard her breath catch. She leaned backward, retracting her step and raising her palms to him, and he lowered the knife to his side.

The silence was long. Minutes, maybe. He was too exhausted, his head too disoriented to keep track. Her arms had settled back down to her sides some time ago and he twirled the knife once, twice in his palm without even realizing, until his eyes tracked her gaze down to it. He stopped.

It occurred to him he had no plan, no mission. Not anymore. He had a list of objectives- weapons, safe place, shelter, water, food, medical attention, sleep. He'd begun to meet them out of order and it threw him off balance.

"I don't have much money on me. If you're friends with the guy in 4C, he OD'd last Thursday and I don't have anything you're looking for here. ...There's food in the kitchen. ...I'm sorry, I don't know what you want."

He scowled at her. Not because she deserved it, but because he didn't know either. He didn't understand the apology. No one had ever apologized to him. They only begged. He inhaled deeply through his nose, his posture and head rising as his chest filled. His expression cleared again, flat and unreadable. He threw a fast glance around to orient himself to the room again and the doorway. He side stepped to the nightstand, grabbed hold of the phone there, and ripped it from its cord, tossing it uselessly on the bed. The snap of the cord gave her a small start, but she didn't make a move for the unguarded doorway. He knew she likely had a cell phone in her pocket or maybe her purse in the other room, but his message had been sent and, he figured, plainly understood.

He moved again, crossing the room to back out of the door and back into the hallway. She stood still. Satisfied when she hadn't moved, he sheathed the knife again and uncharacteristically turned his back to the doorway when he'd made several steps away down the hall. Safe place, medical attention. Food. He went to the kitchen again.

He ate like an animal. Forgoing utensils and stuffing pinches of shredded chicken into his mouth, each bite in before the other was finished. Water. He found a row of plastic bottles in the fridge and grabbed a pair, setting one on the counter and twisting open the other to gulp down in one take. His stomach twisted once, protesting the unexpected onslaught of food and drink and he paused briefly before going on.

She was light on her feet. The creak of the old floorboards beneath her was the hint she was coming. His hand drew the knife again and his eyes turned to the frame of the hall, waiting. She made no effort to hide herself. Rather, she moved deliberately and carefully into the open space of the living room, watching him as he watched her. He held the knife above the height of the counter for her to see, allowing her a moment to stare before he slowly laid it on the counter as a reminder.

"I don't have anything to try."

She didn't. If she made a break for the door, the knife would be in her leg, or anywhere else he wanted, before she even took two steps. He had swept the living room and a cursory check as he moved through the other rooms showed nothing of any concern. There were no weapons there. As far as he had seen, the only weapons in the apartment were in the knife block to his left.

The chicken was gone and he pushed the empty dish away. He grabbed the next bottle of water and took a long drink, his eyes still clocking her down the length of the bottle. He stopped, resetting his breath with a swallow and snapping his head to the apartment door, hearing a man and woman laughing over the sound of their footsteps in the hallway. His eyes shifted to her and she gave a small shake of her head. A door opened and closed outside and the people were gone.

"Why are you here?"

The question was simple enough, but he had no answer. Safe place, shelter, water, food, sleep. He didn't know why he thought he could find these things here. He was drawn by hazy images and words so dull in his head he couldn't understand what they were saying. He didn't say anything.

"Are you going to kill me?"

She had every right to ask. He'd broken into her apartment through the cracked window on the rear fire escape. It wasn't her fault. No one else could have made the jump to the ladder so she had no reason to ever be concerned. He'd threatened her multiple times with the six and a half inch blade on the countertop. She had every reason to be afraid. Only, she wasn't. She was cool and collected. She thought through every movement and every sentence she spoke, an exercise designed to keep both of them calm.

"No...I'm not." At this point, it was the most likely outcome.

The calm was split by the muffled ring of her cell phone. They both looked at the purse on the table and then back at each other. The phone was left to ring, the noise silenced after a half dozen loops. There was a break and the tone began to ring again. She watched the purse nervously as his eyes flitted back and forth between it and her. She pressed her lips tight and exhaled in a small relief when it stopped. Barely a minute later, the display of the portable phone on the end table near the couch lit up and the landline rang.

"It's probably my job. ...They'll just keep calling."

He snatched the knife from off the counter, tipping the blade toward her and then jerking it toward the phone. Having his permission to answer, she stretched quickly for the phone before the machine picked up. He moved around the counter to moderate her call.

"Hello?...Yeah, no. Had my hands full trying to get in the door...Tonight? I- I can't come in...No, any other night and I'd say 'yeah', but I met some friends for dinner and had a couple cocktails so...Uh-huh. No, I appreciate it. Try Rachel though. She said something about wanting some overtime before her vacation...No problem...Yeah, see ya Friday...Bye."

She hung up the phone into its cradle again and looked at him. He tipped his head once in approval.

"They won't call again."

"Who are they?" Gather intelligence, reassess.

"Bellevue Hospital Center...on First Avenue? I'm a nurse there."

He leveled his eyes at her, trying to draw something out of the chaos in his head. Something, someone. It came out as quietly as it came to him.

"Sarah."

"No. My name is Sam."

His eyes twitched at the correction. Who was Sarah? Why had he said her name? He felt the pace of his heart quicken and his chest rose and fell with deeper breaths. Why can't I remember?

"Who are you?"

The question brought him back and he stared at her for a moment. He had a name. He had many, in fact. Asset, Ghost, Babayaga- none of them human. He had to have had a name before. His brow creased in concentration and his eyes ticked around the floor in front of him, searching. He struggled for a moment, the sinew of his jaw moving in anticipation of a word.

"James."

"James. Nice to meet you. ...What do you want, James?"

"I don't know."

"You're hiding...from the cops, or something?"

The intensity of his gaze grew through narrowed eyes. It was enough for him to see her swallow hard. He sized her up again, before moving back into the kitchen. He retrieved his water from the counter and finished the bottle. He had reached the limits of his exhaustion. His muscles ached, his mind moved too slow, and his vision blurred against his will.

He stepped to the sink, pulling the black leather glove off his left hand and dropped it on the counter. He laid the knife at the sink's edge. He opened the faucets wide and a gentle rattle from the pipes in the wall made him pause and blink. He cocked his head to listen to the vibration, as it softened and disappeared after a few seconds. There was something to the noise, almost familiar, but without a rational explanation.

He shook his head and pushed his hands into the rush of water, wringing them clean and splashing pooled water to his face. He grabbed the towel hanging on the handle of the oven door and wiped it down his face, exhaling into the fabric with a small sigh of comfort. He looked back over to her and saw her staring at his metal hand, the pale light from outside glinting across it as he moved. He took up the knife and stashed the dirty glove in one of the cargo pockets of his dusty pants.

"I know who you are."

A menacing look came to his eyes and he stepped back around the kitchen counter. His expression daring, and at the same time demanding, her to tell him. Did she know him? What did she know?

"Who am I?"

"You're him. The man from the news. The one from DC."

She was right again, but the answer was useless to him. He realized his body had tensed, eager for an explanation she didn't provide and he let the air fall out of him and his muscles relax. He shook his head, barley perceptibly, in disappointment. She knew nothing more than he did. That he was the man who destroyed half a city for a mission he'd failed. Her mouth drew back tight at the tense silence that followed.

"You're afraid?"

"No...just confused, I think."

"Why not? You know what I did."

"No one really knows what you did. The news hasn't even said your name. There's just some blurry video. ...But they know about your arm."

He took a step forward, angling for a better look at her.

"Now you've seen my face and heard a name. That should make you afraid...but it doesn't. Why?"

"You pulled Captain Rogers from the river. You saved his life. ...If you could save him, why would you kill me?"

His head tilted back and he looked at her from down his nose, reexamining her for signs of deception. The Captain was still alive. He nodded his understanding. Her reasoning was sound. If he had disobeyed his orders to kill the Captain and chose to save his life, a man who chased, fought, and broke his bones and mind, what justification did he have to kill this girl, let alone harm her.

"You don't know me. Washington's, like, 200 miles away. Why come here?"

Confusion came to his face. Her questions were short and simple. The answers shouldn't be this hard to give. His jaw set forward in frustration.

"I don't know."

"You don't or you don't want me to know?"

"I don't know."

The answer came out rumbling and angry. He saw her breath catch and hold for a moment.

"I'm sorry...Is there someth-"

"Shut up."

Something in him regretted the way he growled at her. It told him it wasn't a way to speak to a woman and it fueled his irritation at the disorganized thoughts in his head. He felt a small compulsion to apologize but he couldn't understand why. She had shut up and the apartment was still again.

His head began to throb and his eyes stung. He pinched at the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes hard for a moment. Eyes opened again, he flicked the point of the knife for her to move away. She side stepped carefully and he moved to sit in a chair at the end of the room. He sank back into the cushions and rested his arms along the ones of the chair. Without an invitation, she took a cautious seat at the far end of the couch. He allowed it. She hadn't given him any trouble yet and she hadn't complained.

"When was the last time you slept?"

"Be quiet."

"Look, you already said you're not going to kill me, so if you'r-"

"I said shut up."

She opened her mouth again and seemed to change her mind. Her hands folded in her lap and her breath huffed out of her nose. He stared at her from his chair. She looked back and occasionally around the room. Several long minutes passed and the relaxation of sitting down in a comfortable chair made his eye lids heavy.

His eyes broke open, startled awake from a sleep he didn't know he was in. Knife gripped tight in his hand, he snapped straight in the chair, coiled to strike and chest heaving. The room was lit now, by a soft watt lamp standing between the bookcase and the front door. Ahead of him, she was behind the counter, leaning down on her elbows. He stood up and so did she. He crossed quickly into the kitchen and she stepped aside to the corner by the refrigerator to give him room as he brandished the knife again.

"What are you doing?"

"It's late. I was hungry. ...It's just leftover Chinese. ...Are you hungry?"

She pointed to the open boxes of takeout on the counter. He lowered the knife to his side. She took the initiative to slide down the counter and reached into the cupboard for a plate, scooping some rice and sweet and sour chicken out of one of the boxes. She pulled out an extra fork from the drawer and held it out for him to take. She waggled the fork between her thumb and index finger, enticing him to take it.

"For fuck's sake. Just take it. You slept for like an hour. If I were gonna pull something I'd have done it then, don't ya think? ...It's just Chinese food."

He put the knife away into the holster and took the fork from her hand. He picked up the box of rice and chicken and stepped back from the counter to watch the width of the kitchen. She leaned against the counter, taking bites from her plate, occasionally looking up from her meal to see him staring at her as he inhaled the food. She put her plate aside and went to the refrigerator for a couple of bottles of water and a beer. She twisted open a water and handed it to him. He accepted and she put the extra water nearby for him and twisted the cap off the beer for herself. He eyed her bottle, a little surprised by her choice- a little reckless considering the stranger in her home. She noticed and looked at the bottle in her hand.

"I'm havin' a bit of a fuckin' day, ya know, so don't judge. ...And you- stick to water. You look like shit. You need to hydrate."

"Who the hell are you?"

She smiled. "I'm nobody, but I've seen run down people like you everyday for years. You need food and water and rest...or, whatever it is you're trying to do, you're gonna crap out before you can finish."

"I don't need your advice."

"I'm just saying."

"How long? How long was I asleep?"

"An hour. Hour and a half, tops."

It wasn't long, but it would have to do. He shouldn't have allowed himself to sleep, anyway.

"Look...I don't know what your plan is here, but you're not exactly fit for travel. ...The couch is comfortable. If you sleep fast, you can get a solid seven hours before sun up."

Her plate was empty and she twisted at the waist to put it in the sink. She started then stopped, shuffling a step to figure out the best way to cross him and leave the kitchen. She skirted by him, eyes down to watch her feet step. She stopped on the other side of the counter, looking for a moment for something to say, he supposed. Instead, she gave a small, awkward tip of her beer and disappeared to the hallway. He heard the wood creak beneath her steps and the sound shrink the further she got before a door shut. There was a muffled scraping and he figured she had found some way to brace her door shut.

He set the box of Chinese on the counter and went out to check down the hall. He saw the sliver of light from underneath the bedroom door go dark. Looking around him, he noticed the twin deadbolts on the door had been thrown while he was asleep. Going back to the living room, he sat on the edge of the couch. Sandwiched between a pair of tall bookcases was a large tv on a stand. The bookshelves were lined with a mix of hard and soft bound books, souvenirs, and picture frames. On one of the upper shelves of the case to his right was a large hinged frame, a portrait of a uniformed soldier on one half and a gold star flag displayed in the other. He looked down at the clothes he was wearing and back to the portrait. The soldier had been gone awhile and wouldn't be coming back.

He rose from the couch to turn off the lamp near the door. He sat back down and swung his boots up onto the couch. Pulling the knife from his waist, he gripped the weapon to his chest and draped his flesh arm over his eyes. He was asleep within minutes.

When he woke, the sun was creeping across the living room floor and up the couch. He sat up, his right foot finding the floor, and he listened. The living room and kitchen were empty. He stood up, absentmindedly twirling the blade in his palm as he crept heel to toe through the room and down the hallway. The bedroom door was open. He inched forward to the edge of the doorway and pied his way around the corner. The room was empty. He backtracked to the bathroom, checking the small spare room on the way and finding no one.

Supplies- bag, water, bandages, clothes. He used the bathroom, in and out of the shower in only a few minutes. Hair still damp, he dressed quickly and went to the bedroom. Going through the closet, he grabbed a weathered black backpack and a few extra shirts. He eyeballed a pair of worn in jeans and stuffed them in the bag. Rummaging through the dresser top and nightstand drawers, he pocketed the few loose dollars and handful of change he found. He went back to the bathroom, pulling on his jacket from the night before and raiding the remaining supplies of the first aid kit, slowing to redress the gouge on his arm. He pulled three water bottles from the fridge for his bag and slung the straps over his shoulders. He checked the world around him for anything else of use before crossing the apartment and climbing out the window to the fire escape.


	2. Chapter 2

"Ha! Screw you, Jerry, and the horse you rode in on!"

She shook her head, with a grin, as her neighbor continued on upstairs. Arm wrapped around a brown paper grocery bag and purse slipping down her arm, she kicked the door closed behind her with her heel and a smile. She dangled her purse over the table near the door and let it fall with a gentle thud. Setting her keys down beside her purse, she made the half turn back to lock the bolts on the door. The building was well managed and safe, but she was still a woman living alone in Brooklyn and her mother had insisted on the habit.

Shifting the grocery bag to her hip, she crossed into the kitchen. With the bag balanced on the counter, she began unpacking the few odds and ends and sorting them along the countertop. The half gallon of milk and the small bottle of creamer went straight to the refrigerator shelf. Folding the empty bag down and over at its half, she turned on her heel to the next edge of the counter to stash the bag in the lower cabinet.

She startled backward a step, with an audible gasp. The bag fell to the floor with a rustling bounce and a frightened profanity whispered unintelligibly from her mouth. She swallowed hard, pressing her hand over her stomach to steady herself, and blinked at the man in the living room chair. Long hair shadowing his face in the afternoon light, he sat on the edge of the seat, elbows on his knees and hands loosely hanging down. His right hand held a knife and it rolled down his palm to be twisted around in his fingers.

The light spring breeze waved the sheer curtain in front of the wide open window to the fire escape beside him. On the floor leaned up against the chair was a familiar black backpack, looking a little worse for wear. Even without the metal hand shining in the sun from the cuff of his jacket, she would have remembered him. His face drawn in exhaustion and he seeming a little thinner than she recalled, she wondered if he had ever had the time to rest. 

It had been four months since the man had broken into her home the first time. Four months since he'd mysteriously shown up, bleeding on her floor and threatening her with the same knife in his hand today. That long since he'd stolen a bag full of clothes and bandages and disappeared, as quietly as he came, while she went down the street for coffee and breakfast for two and left him asleep on her couch. She began to watch the news, when she could, after he left, curious for any sign of him and not really surprised when she and the world didn't seem to see one. The Earth spun on and the interest in the events in DC faded from the highlights of national news.

"What are you doing here?"

She was surprised how hard the words were to get past the lump in her throat. She swallowed hard and he sat quietly. He stood, flipping the knife around to grab the hilt and line the blade back along the edge of his forearm. Her palms began to sweat and she pressed them into the coolness of the countertop. He came to the entrance of the kitchen and eyed her up and down for a long moment. Satisfied with whatever he saw, he slipped the knife into a sheath on his belt and tugged the hem of his t-shirt down to conceal it.

"So, you're not here to kill me?"

The suggestion prompted no change in his vacant expression and it gave her a chill. The situation wasn't unfamiliar, but was somehow more unnerving than the first. She turned to face him and stepped backward until her hand found the next counter behind her. 

"Are you gonna say something? Cuz I'm kinda freakin' out here."

"I'm not here to kill you."

She nodded warily. What good was the word of a burglar with a knife, anyway? Since that night she found him in her apartment, she had spent hours trying to figure out the whys and hows of the whole thing. The labor bore no fruits and she'd let it go, resigned to never knowing. But here he was again and she had just as many questions, if not more, as the first time. 

She watched him reach his metal hand into his pocket, a little nervous for what might come out. He withdrew his hand, with his fingers closed around something. He reached his fist over the counter and flattened his palm onto the countertop. When he raised his hand, a crumpled fold of bills partially unfurled itself. She looked between him and the money, her brow creasing in mild confusion.

"You broke into my apartment to return the money you stole?"

The idea was every bit as ridiculous as her question made it sound. He glared back at her and she watched the muscles in his face line up his jaw.

"I didn't steal. I borrowed."

Part of her was indignant. Taking money and property from someone without their consent or knowledge was more than a reasonable definition of theft and, by that, he had indeed stolen from her. She ran her tongue along her teeth and it pursed her lips forward into a contemplative pout for a moment. She leaned forward and picked up the money, wadding it into the pocket of her denim shorts, with a small frown. 

"I'd have given you the money, if you'd asked."

"You weren't around to ask."

There was a long pause between them. She gave him a once over and decided he did look like he'd lost some weight. His build was still broad and strong, but the muscle seemed more lean than solid now. His face was thinner, the contour of his cheek bones and jaw more prominent now. She couldn't tell if it was because of fatigue or poor diet, but she guessed it was probably a combination of both. She let out a small sigh to break the silence.

"You look tired...or maybe it's 'tired again'. I don't know. ...When was the last time you slept?"

His eyes leveled and his lips pulled like they were holding the answer back. She could tell from his look that if he was sleeping, it wasn't for long and wasn't restful. It made the corners of her mouth pull down into a small, pitying frown. She looked at him, expectantly, waiting to see if an answer came. A bit of frustration came when there wasn't a response and she folded her arms across her chest.

"Come with more wounds to lick?"

He sent her a disapproving scowl. Her shoulders sank a fraction from the intimidating look and she instantly regretted her sassing him.

"I don't know why I came here."

"There has to be a reason."

She watched his lips tug into a tight frown and his forehead wrinkle, like he was trying to make sense of something. She looked on in curiosity, as he pivoted away from her to look out from the kitchen and across the apartment. His brow folded deeper over his eyes and, for a moment, he looked angry. He shook his head and his expression cleared. He wandered slowly from the kitchen to stand in the open space of the living room, eyes searching around him.

"I know this place."

The haunted way he spoke sent a small shiver through her and she looked on as he surveyed his surroundings. 

"That's why I came here. ...I keep- seeing this place."

"I think you'd remember if you lived here or something."

"I can't remember. ...It's gone."

"What is?"

"Everything. ...Everything I used to know. ...They took it from me and I want it back."

He shook his head again. As he turned his face to look around, she saw something she hadn't seen the last time. Pain. Not the pain that comes from broken bones or torn skin- the kind of pain the heart feels first and the body reacts to. His eyes had a glassy sheen in the sunlight and his gaze seemed to look far beyond the wall in front of him. She watched him step forward and press his fingers to the wall. At some point in its life, the wall had been replastered.

Time wearing on and the building settling had surfaced thin cracks around the seams of the old patch. Nothing to repair or worry over, but visible if you knew where to look. Only, she was the only one who ever looked. She found the patch when she first moved in, inspecting for a stud to hang a large poster print of Ansel Adams' Rose and Driftwood on. You'd almost have to line your eye along the wall to see the subtle lines and wave to the smoothness of the wall there, but he had gone to it without directions and now flattened his palm, splaying his fingers to read the cracks beneath his fingertips.

"What are you doing?"

"You fixed this wall?"

"No. It was like that when I got here."

"How long?"

"I don't know. Almost four years this winter?"

He nodded to himself, eyes wandering over the wall and around his hand. It was a little unnerving and she crossed her arms to feel better. His hand slid down the wall and fell into the front of his hip, with a soft pat. He took a step back and wiped his soft hand down around his mouth, contemplating something. His fingers pulled at his lower lip, before his head cocked and turned down to the area rug bedside his booted foot. He skirted the edge of the rug, as if looking for something he had dropped, and tested the floorboards with the toe of his boot. He fell to one knee and flipped back the corner of the carpet to run his fingertips along the joints of the hardwood. She moved closer to the counter to see beyond it.

"What are you doing?"

She frowned at him ignoring her and she watched him dig a fingernail into the seam where the end of two boards met. She couldn't help the miniature gasp that escaped, when he popped up the board to show a compartment underneath. He twisted the piece of wood, turning it over in his hand before setting it aside and shifting down to both knees. Curiosity got the better of her and she came out of the kitchen to stand a respectable distance behind him, but close enough to see around his shoulder.

The void was as wide as the boards of the floor and about two feet long. She couldn't tell if the gap was there on purpose or a happy discovery put to good use. It looked empty from where she stood, and her suspicion was confirmed by him muttering the same. She watched him reach down and feel along the edges of the hidden compartment. He rested back on his heels to examine something he retrieved. He opened his palm and blew away a puff of dust and fuzz to reveal a safety pin, a torn corner of a yellowed piece of paper, and a coin. He studied the piece of aged paper for a moment before letting it fall to the floor. He pinched the coin between his finger and thumb, letting the pin drop back into its home. Holding the coin up in the sunshine for a moment, he used the bottom of his shirt to polish the old nickel.

"1941."

She barely heard the year, he read it so softly. He twisted his wrist, admiring the coin from every angle. She noted a kind of fondness in the way he looked at it. He curled the coin down into his palm and squeezed his fist tightly. Rising up on his knees, he slipped the coin into the smallest pocket of his jeans. He replaced the board, giving it a thump from the side of his fist to set it back in place. 

"Technically, that's mine, ya know."

She smirked at her own joke and he pushed himself up from the floor, turning to face her.

"It was mine first."

She didn't understand what he meant by the remark. She raised a curious eyebrow as he surveyed the apartment around him again. Both hands rose and scrubbed down his face over clenched eyes. He hissed out an exasperated breath and pushed a hand back hard through his long hair. She took a step back, giving him room, becoming a little nervous at the tension she saw building in his body and his eyes narrowing. He drew in a breath and paused. His expression faded with an exhale and was replaced by one she hadn't seen from him yet. A wide eyed realization came to his face, his lips parting for him to breath and his shoulders sagging.

"This was mine. ...It was ours."

He stepped forward and turned over his shoulder to look at the patched wall. He pointed a finger, tapping it on the air in the direction of the hairline cracks.

"Billy Delaney put his fist through that wall. Came to knock my teeth in for kissing his sister. ...We fixed the hole ourselves. We couldn't afford to pay a damages bill. They never knew."

She sniggered at the story and the noise brought his attention back to her again, before his eyes ticked around the room like there were words to be read somewhere. A smile played at the corner of her mouth watching a new brightness come to his face, with a small nod for himself.

"This is where we lived."

"You're Mrs. Adler's son?"

"Who?"

"Mrs. Adler. The woman I bought the apartment from, you're her son?"

His brow tightened and he shook his head.

"I don't know an Adler."

Stumped for a moment, her mouth opened and closed before her own brow wrinkled with questions. He couldn't have been much older than her, if even at all. Late 20's, maybe early 30's, but she capped her guess at less than 35. She had bought the apartment after the kindly widow Adler moved to a nursing home when her vision began to fail her. Granted, she didn't know much about Mrs. Adler, but she knew for fact the woman had lived in the apartment for the better part of 45 years and was herself in her late 70's. How could it be his apartment if he wasn't her son and he was so young?

"Well, then how di- When did you live here?"

There was a long pause where he didn't answer the question. Instead, he took a few slow and wandering steps around the room, his eyes seeming to pull details he didn't point out. She was feeling a little impatient, as his tongue swiped over his lower lip before he bit down with another self serving nod.

"March of '37."

She laughed. It had to be a joke. It was too absurd not to be. How could he possibly think she could take him seriously? 

"Till June of '43."

"Laying it on a little thick, aren't you? Come on."

Her smile dissolved at the insistent look in his eyes. It was ridiculous. It wasn't possible. For the first time, she wondered if he was insane. Only a mad man could make such an impossible claim and believe it was true. Maybe he wasn't completely crazy or wrong. He did know about the floor board hiding space, but he also had broken into her home twice. How many times had it been done it to Mrs. Adler before he found the secret spot?

"I think you need to go."

"I don't have anywhere to go. ...This is where we lived. It's why I came here."

"Whatever game this is or whatever you're trying to pull, I'm not interested. Leave or I'm calling the cops."

They were at an impasse, staring at each other for a long moment. She tried her best to come off confident, curling her hands by her sides and tipping her chin up a fraction more.

“You don't know what you'd be doing."

"I know there's no way you lived here in 1937 and you've broken into my home, twice. I don't know what brand of crazy you're selling, but I'm not buying and I want you out of my apartment."

"You can't call the cops."

Nervousness gave way to growing fear. Her eyes flitted to the phone on the end table and she finally saw the cord unplugged from the jack. Her cellphone was still in her purse by the door and he was angled to one side between her and both the phone and the doorway. Her eyes glancing between the entryway and him gave her away and he pulled the knife back out from behind him.

"I don't want to hurt you."

Her heart was racing and the palms of her balled fists began to sweat. 

"I'll scream."

It was the only threat she had to make. She was trapped and at a loss for what else to do. Panic began to spread over her, as he flipped the knife in his grip to point the blade behind him.

"I don't want to, but I will, if you make me."

"Jesus fu- What the hell do you want?"

"I know this place. It's where we lived."

"You're fuckin' crazy."

"It's where we lived and it's a safe place. That's why I came here. ...He was supposed to be here. He was supposed to wait- here. ...He was supposed to stay here till I got back. Where it was safe."

He twitched and paced like a wild animal in a small cage. A flush of red rose up his neck and to his face as he went on, angrily. All she could do was watch, too frightened to move as his agitation swelled. He stopped and stood still, eyes glassy and red, searching chaotically across the floor under his feet.

"He wasn't supposed to go. He shoulda waited here until I got back. ...Punk. It was safe here."

His voice softened and the red slowly left his skin. She watched him shake his head and saw a tear break free over the lashes of his right eye. He clenched his metal hand and pressed its heel into his forehead, as he closed his eyes. She didn't know what to do. Still scared of whatever was happening, she surprised herself when she was able to speak. 

“Who? Who was supposed to wait?"

His chest expanded in a deep breath and a name came on the exhale. 

"Steve. ...He was supposed to wait for me here."

The name meant nothing to her and the room was quiet again. He dropped his hands down to his sides, looking up and around him. It seemed he had come back from wherever his outburst had taken him. His eyes turned up to the ceiling and his sniffed. She watched the knife flip once in his hand. Her breath caught. Not from the flip of the blade, but from the line her mind suddenly drew. 

"Captain Rogers? ...Steve Rogers. He was supposed to wait for you- here."

His eyes locked on hers, with a kind of wounded softness. She almost thought there was gratitude in them, although she didn't understand for what. It was the weakness in his eyes that slowed her pulse and relaxed her body. She was right. That was Steve.

Her jaw slacked open at the realization. It was possible. She couldn't explain how, but he could be telling the truth. Everyone knew Captain America was Brooklyn's favorite son. He had grown up in the burrough before the war. And this man, with the metal arm and secrets about her home, had saved the Captain's life and said his name was James. 

"Jesus Christ. ...You're Bucky Barnes."

His eyes widened at the name and he breathed in deep and slow. She saw the hard swallow in his throat and the admission in his expression. Her hand moved subconsciously to cover her mouth, as she thought about what had just happened. Feeling a little overwhelmed, she stepped backward, blindly, to sit on the edge of the coffee table. 

"That's impossible. ...Or, maybe not. I mean, Steve Rogers is- How is that even possible? Bucky Barnes is d-...Well, you're supposed to be."

She gestured helplessly to him, as she reasoned out loud. He stepped backward, finding the corner of the narrow piece of wall that separated the beginning of the kitchen from the end of the entryway to lean into. Another lull fell over the room, the only disturbance was the gentle shush of his knife being returned to its sheath along his back. After another moment, she watched him slide down the wall and bend up his knees for his arms to fold over.

She wasn't afraid anymore and she decided to try and not be anymore trouble for him. Dozens of questions came to her mind, but she didn't ask any of them. Instead, she kept an eye on him, figuring it best to give him some time. He had come into her apartment looking thin and tired and looking for a safe place.

Whatever she thought she knew about the disaster that happened in Washington almost five months ago was challenged by the unassuming man slumped on the floor of the apartment he used to share with Steve Rogers. The relentless terrorist depicted in the news didn't match the person she saw before her. She spoke up again, patient and a little concerned this time.

"When was the last time you slept?"

He raised his head to look at her. 

"I don't know."

She nodded to herself, thinking. He was clearly exhausted. She reasoned he'd probably been on the run everyday of these last few months and she understood now what drew him back to this place. She didn't know what had happened to him that he could be alive and almost well in the 21st century, but she knew he had found his way back to what may have been the last safe place he knew. She couldn't send him away like this, with no place to go and in the run down state he was in. She could afford him another night.

"There's not much here. I was going to order in. ...You can stay here tonight, on the couch. Towels are in the hall closet. I'm sure you know your way around."

He studied her a moment and then nodded. She stood up from her perch on the table and plugged the phone cord back into the wall. Taking the portable handset with her, she walked around him into the kitchen to root through a cluttered drawer for a menu. Dialing the number for the pizza parlor near the park, she heard him get to his feet and tracked him across the view from the counter, as he walked into the hallway.

Food ordered, she found herself stuck in the kitchen, trying to sort out whatever the hell was happening that afternoon. There was, by all accounts, a domestic terrorist in her bathroom. A knife wielding man who broke into her apartment, again, and had a secret compartment under the living room floor. And he was in the bathroom running the faucet. He appeared, at times, just as confused as she was and it made her wonder how he could seem to know so much and so little at the same time. 

She blinked her head clear and went back to the living room. Taking a seat on the couch, she picked up her iPad from the coffee table and went to the internet. James Bucky Barnes <Go> Images. Her head lolled to the right, as she considered the screen. Swiping through several black and white portraits of a young, handsome man in an Army uniform, with his hat cocked smugly on his brow, she squinted, trying to see the scruffy faced man beneath the long hair in the photos of the well groomed soldier on the screen.

She went back to the search results and tapped the videos link. She opened a five minute video, a piece from a History Channel documentary on the Howling Commandos. The narration faded in her ears, as all of her concentration was fixed on the  segments of restored and colorized newsreel footage. Absentmindedly holding the nail of her middle finger in her teeth, she slumped into the back of the couch and her free thumb paused the screen. The frame of a living color Bucky Barnes beside Steve Rogers, bright eyes crinkled from laughter stared back at her. It was the eyes that proved it, stormy blue and grey at the same time.

"Oh, my god. It's really him."

She was transfixed for a long minute before coming to and letting the rest of the video play. Down the hall, she heard the rush of the shower running. She tapped on another video and then another, hooked on the research she'd started. The water still ran and she was back on the results page, opening the link to the Smithsonian's Captain Rogers exhibit, a Purdue history professor's Howling Commandos blog, and then an article on a gun enthusiast website about Barnes' sniping skills that ranked him number 7 on their top ten list. Number 7 only because of the advancements in weapons and scopes allowing for further, more accurate shots. The author admitted, Bucky Barnes would be on the throne of the list if it stopped at 1953.

The buzzer near the front door interrupted her reading and she sat up quickly. Setting aside the tablet, she sprinted on her toes to the door, grabbing her wallet out of her purse and letting the delivery man in downstairs with a long press of a button. She opened and stood in the door while she thumbed out cash, waiting as she listened to the hurried footfall up the stairs. She gave him a little something extra for the three story climb like she always did and turned back into the apartment door to find her guest standing in the hallway. Hair damp and dripping onto his naked shoulders, he was bladed along the wall, jeans on but feet bare, with the dagger pulled up in his hand. It wasn't as alarming as it would have been thirty minutes ago.

She frowned for a quick second, wondering what it must be like to be that on edge all the time, before she sighed piteously and told him it was just the pizza guy. Arms laden with a big bag stacked on top of a large pizza box, she kicked the door closed and he crossed the floor to bolt it behind her and check the hall outside through the peephole. She gave him another frown for going to the living room window to peer down to the street from behind the edge of the curtain, checking left then right and tilting his chin up to scan the buildings and rooftop across the way. While she unpacked the bag of food and set a pair of plates on the counter, he repeated the same maneuver at the window in the corner of the room that looked over the alleyway and that he used as his side door.

"I didn't know what you'd want, so I ordered a few different things. Help yourself."

She plated a wide slice of pepperoni and sausage pizza and opened a long paper box to tear off a piece of thick garlic bread. She took out a bottle of beer for herself and grabbed a bottle of water to set on the counter by the empty plate for him. She could feel him watching her, as she left from the kitchen and took a seat at the small two person table along the wall ahead of the kitchen counter. She thought for a second that he might say something, when she looked up at him from her seat and saw his lips part. Instead, his lips pursed slightly over a hard swallow and he flipped the knife around a few quick times in his palm before heading down the hallway. She wondered how long it took someone to be that comfortable and skilled to twirl a knife that size in their hand without a look. 

He came back a minute later. His laces undone, the ends of his jeans half bunched, half fell in above the tops of his boots. He'd pulled on a different t-shirt, the blue cotton shadowing as it gathered the stray drops of water from his hair. She turned to watch over her shoulder and the counter, as he sorted through the boxes of food in the kitchen. When he came back around the edge of the kitchen wall, he stopped. Plate filled with half a hoagie, bread, and pizza, he seemed to hesitate for where to go. She flashed him a kind smile and nudged back the chair at the other end of the short table with the toe of her shoe. She got the impression he wasn't good with people or, at least, he was too paranoid to be lately.

He sat across from her, maybe a little reluctantly. It was hard to tell. A byproduct of some PTSD from Washington, some kind of defense mechanism, or something else, he was hard to read. What she knew was that he was hungry. He ate fast, gulping at the water he brought with him and biting before he'd finished chewing. He had twice as much food but was done with his first plate as she was finishing hers. He swallowed the last of his drink and she tipped her head to the kitchen to offer him seconds. He left and came back with as much food as the first helping and the ravenous feeding started again. She gave a small laugh and shook her head, as she stood to take her own plate back for more.

"You can slow down. No one's going to take it from you."

She pulled away her smile, when she saw him stop mid-chew and look up at her. His eyes flicked down to his plate and he straightened up a little, his eyes slightly widening with some realization, before his lids leveled to glare at the food. 

"They used to."

A bit unnerved by what he said, she stood still, plate in hand. She looked down at him, feeling guilty for what she said and not sure why. He sat back in his seat and swallowed what was left in his mouth, eyes still pointed at his food on the table but seeing something else.

"Someone took foo- Who would do that to a person?"

He snorted quietly, the fast rise in his chest rocking his head back a bit. He blinked and shook his head, his eyes turning down to the metal hand flattened on the table. She followed his gaze, as he spoke.

"HYDRA."

Hearing the name from him and not the tv gave her a chill. She didn't know what to do with it. Setting her plate on the table again, she eased back down to her seat. His eyes met hers for a moment, before he leaned back in on the table's edge and took up part of a sandwich. He ate more slowly now. She felt a bit awkward watching him eat, but for some reason she couldn't look away. Moving slower now, he seemed to find the flavor in the food and she hoped he was able to enjoy it. She thought for a moment, hesitating to ask but too curious not to.

"Did they do that to your arm?"

He didn't stop eating. It was more of a pause. He didn't look at her, but he did give a short nod and glanced over to his left arm before taking another bite. Her eyes inspected the arm, marveling and really noticing, for the first time, how it articulated and responded like his right. 

"Does it- I mean, can you feel? Would you know if something were cold or hot or wet?"

"I feel everything."

The answer deserved the impressed pout she gave it. She had seen a variety of prosthetics and false limbs, but nothing so functional and responsive. It was beyond what she knew was available to amputees and, that it bordered on science fiction, compared to anything else on the market, was fascinating to her. She didn't know how he'd take the admiration of the metal arm, so she kept it to herself.

"May I ask, what happened?"

She knew it would be a delicate subject. She wouldn't blame him, if he didn't tell her. It wasn't any of her business, but there it was, right in front of her, and she was interested to hear. He chewed the food in his mouth and washed it down with a drink. She waited while he ran his eyes up and down what he could see of her, like he was debating if she was worthy of the answer. She was surprised again when he pushed his plate away from him so he had room to fold his arms over each other on the table and he explained. He told her it was everything he knew- what he remembered about the day he "died" and the Russian soldiers finding him by the riverside, the surgeries and experiments, about the torture and starvation to break him down, the machine that erased his mind and the reprogramming, and how they trained and used him. He stopped short of saying what specifically they used him for.

The story left her speechless. He shifted in his seat and picked up the remainder of his hoagie, that had surely gone cold while he spoke about his arm, while she rested into her chair back to process everything. She let out a heavy breath and a miniature spasm in her stomach reminded her she was still hungry. She went to the kitchen for more pizza and something else to drink. When she returned to the table, she brought a pair of beer bottles with her and put one down in front of him. He gave it a look and then gave one to her.

"I thought I was supposed to hydrate."

It almost sounded like he was trying to make a joke. She preferred to think he was and she smirked.

"Yeah, well, beer's got healing properties, too. Besides, it sounds like you earned one."

Her smirk spread to smile, when she saw the corner of his mouth tick back into the hint of a small, lopsided grin. It was gone when he took another bite of his dinner.

Clearing her plate and empty bottles of beer from the table, she tidied up the kitchen and put the leftovers in the fridge. He finished while she was gone and met her at the threshold of the kitchen, as she was leaving. She took the dishes from him and he went to sit in the living room. Rinsing off the plates in the sink, she stole a look to the next room and saw him leaned onto his knees. He ran his hands up and down his face and raked them back through his hair, tiredly. Wiping off her hands, she checked the clock on the microwave. It was barely 8 o'clock but she knew he needed rest. She loaded the dishwasher and walked around out of the kitchen.

She went down to the hall closet, pulling out an extra pair of sheets and a light blanket, before stepping into her room to grab a pillow off the bed. She took the items back to the living room with her and shooed him off the couch, with a wave of her hand. Throwing out a sheet over the seat of the couch, she tucked it in around the cushions. She dropped the pillow on one end and piled the top sheet and blanket at the other, before giving him a warm smile.

"You should try to get some sleep. ...If you need anything, help yourself or let me know. Goodnight."

She turned away to head off for her bedroom again.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."


	3. Chapter 3

Her laughter carried in from the hallway through the half open door. Her fingers folded around the edge of the door, occasionally drumming while she spoke for several minutes to someone he couldn't see. The conversation was mundane, the kind reserved for vague acquaintances and familiar strangers. It wasn't the topic of conversation that interested him, it was the way she responded to it. How she managed to come of as genuinely interested, humoring who he took to be the elderly neighbor across the hall with patience, as the older woman prattled on about the storming weather outside and the new neighbors above her in 4C walking so heavily. A phone ringing from across the hall finally released her and she stepped backward into the apartment with a wave and a smile.

"I'll talk to them about the noise if I see them Mrs. Miller," she assured her. "Good night."

She flipped the light switch by the door, turning on the living room lamp as she pushed the door closed and locked the deadbolts. The rain beat against the windows, with the frequent rumble of thunder and flash of lightning. She propped up a dripping umbrella by the door and set her purse and keys on the small table beside her, taking a moment to fish her cell phone out of her purse before walking into the kitchen. She thumbed up, scrolling through the emails that chimed into her phone as it found her wi-fi signal and she blindly pulled a bottle of water from the refrigerator. Turning back toward the living room, she bumped the fridge door closed with her hip and twisted open the bottle for a drink. The sight of him sitting in the chair by the window nearly made her choke, catching the back of her hand over her mouth to keep from spitting her drink across the floor and sending her into a red-faced coughing fit, as she wiped at her chin.

"Jesus fucking Christ," she managed at the rough end of her final cough. She sent him a long, disapproving scowl. "What the hell are you doing here?"

A small part of him wanted to laugh at her reaction. The better part of him knew it would be rude. He looked back at her silently, giving her a moment to compose herself. Beside him, the window to the fire escape was vented open, letting the curtain flutter in the gusty wind from outside.

After a moment, he apologized. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

"Yeah?" she scoffed. "Well, you got a funny way of showing it. Sitting in the dar- What the hell are you doing here?"

Her eyes flitted over to the window. Her head tipped to the side and her hands went up for a moment before falling in exasperation to her sides. She rolled her eyes and went to the window, stepping around him to close and lock the window, with a sigh of frustration. She moved back to the open space of the living room, his eyes following her as she went. Putting her water down on the coffee table and stuffing her phone into the front pocket of her jeans, she folded her arms and waited.

"Well?" she insisted, her brow arching up in annoyance.

"I don't know."

Her head bobbed once, as she scoffed again. "Of course not," she muttered. She sighed, giving him a once over and remembering why he ever showed up in the first place. "Don't you worry someone's gonna find you here?"

He shook his head. "Nobody's watching this place," he told her. "No one followed me."

Something about the way he said it made her believe him. "Okay," she nodded.

The room was quiet again, save for the storm outside buffeting against the building. She finally sat down, angling herself into the far corner of the couch to see him and folding one leg beneath her. He watched her as she moved, settling himself into the back of the chair. They eyed each other carefully.

He looked better than before. Even from under the slight shadow of his ball cap, the sunkeness of his face was lessened and he didn't appear exhausted. He actually gave her the impression he had been sleeping and eating regularly. For once, she wasn't concerned for his wellbeing and the realization put a small pout on her face. If he didn't need food or rest, why was he here again?

"So, what is it this time?" she asked, closing her eyes in a long blink and slow shake of her head.

"This time?" he repeated.

"The first time you showed up," she began, "you bled on my floor. Then you come in looking skinny as a stray. What's wrong now?" She finally noticed the wet spot beneath his boots on the living room rug and raised a helpless and frustrated hand. "Besides needing a goddamn mop."

He looked down at himself, clothes still damp and clinging. "Sorry," he said quietly.

Her head tipped to the side with a small frown. "It's just water," she told him.

To him, she sounded dismissive, almost resigned or pitying. He watched her stand and turn for the hallway. She looked back, pausing mid-step to hold up a hand and gesture to be given a minute. She disappeared down the hallway and he checked the street outside from behind the curtain edge. She came back with an armful of towels and clothes, stopping in front of him to hold out the dry offerings. He let the curtain close and looked up between her and the items in her hands.

"Here," she said, jutting her chin. "Before you catch pneumonia, or something, and die."

Not likely, he thought. He took the clothes from her without complaint or question and she took a step back as he stood. He gave her a single nod of appreciation, as he moved around her to go to the bathroom. He took a glance over his shoulder before the hallway and saw her hands raise and fall to her sides in an exasperated gesture, as she looked over the wet chair he left behind.

He closed the door behind him, opening the shower taps and listening with a crooked smile at the brief rattle of the pipes. He hung his hat on the door handle and stripped off his clothes, the materials making a wet slap as they fell to the tile floor. Standing in the shower, he turned his head down under the water, the heat working its way into his muscles and a relaxing sigh falling out of his chest. He stood there for several long minutes, before grabbing the soap and lathering up his hair and body. When he was finished, he pulled on the fresh t-shirt and sweatpants she had given him, balling up his old clothes and hat to stash in his bag and pinching the tops of his boots in the fingers of one hand.

In the living room again, she looked up from her phone with a disapproving frown. She stood up from the couch and held out a hand to him, flitting her fingers at his to surrender the items he was holding. He gave her and his clothes a questioning look before she reached out, taking hold of the sopping clothes in one hand and boots in the other. She dropped the boots beside the front door and went down the hall to her room. She returned a minute later, laundry basket in her hands and headed for the door. She dropped his ball cap on the dining table, as she passed. Hugging the basket into her hip, she paused on her way out into the hallway to look back at him.

"I ordered dinner, if someone rings the bell before I come back," she told him. "Cash is here by the door. Don't," she paused, searching for the words. "Don't stab the poor guy or anything, okay?"

She pulled the door shut behind her and a quiet snort huffed from his nose with a smirk. He moved to the door, catching a glimpse of her popping down the stairs. He watched for a moment until he was satisfied there was no one in the hall. He turned back to the apartment, giving his own disapproving frown to the chair he'd been sitting in. He went back to the bathroom, grabbing a dry towel from the rack and returning to the living room to pat the upholstery dry as best he could. After a couple minutes work, he grabbed his backpack from the floor, spread the towel on the kitchen counter, and began unpacking the bag.

He unfolded a pair of damp shirts to dry over the back of the small dining table chair. One at a time, he placed the weapons from his bag on the towel. A Glock 26 with an extra magazine, twin Mark II knives, a Beretta 92 with two spare magazines, and a Smith & Wesson M&P with its own pair of extra magazines. He broke down the Smith, laying out the parts to dry and thumbing the rounds out into a pile to dry the springs of the magazines. He was in the middle of dismantling the Beretta when he heard the footsteps up the stairs. He stopped, cocking his head toward the door and gripping his hand around the Glock as he waited. The door handle turned and she stepped in, stopping mid-stride at the sight of the items on the counter and his hand resting on the gun.

She quickly shut the door behind her and he took his hand off the one gun, returning to taking apart the other. She watched him for a moment from the entryway by the door. She flinched when the buzzing callbox beside her signaled the arrival of dinner. Shaking her head clear, she buzzed the downstairs door open and picked up the money from the table. Her hand hovering over the door handle, she looked back at him.

"Can you- Just, um," she fumbled for the words, as she gestured toward the display of weapons in front of him. "Can you? Please?"

He looked from her to the items on the counter. He folded the free edges of the towel to cover his stash and she looked relieved. Footsteps from the hallway came closer and she opened the door before there would have been a knock. She greeted the delivery boy politely and traded her money for his food. At the counter, he kept one hand on a knife underneath the towel, just in case. With a parting word of thanks, she closed the door with her foot and took the bag of food into the kitchen. He crossed to the door, locking the bolts with a quick check of the peep hole.

In the kitchen, she pulled a pair of plates from the cupboard and some utensils from a drawer. She unpacked a row of Chinese takeout boxes onto the counter, reminding him, "You ate Chinese before. I figured you'd eat it again. Besides, you get a lot for the money."

He reached into the small zippered pocket of his bag and pulled out a stack of bills folded in half. She didn't think it was appropriate to ask where he got it from. He thumbed the bills apart, meaning to pay for his share of the meal. The money was as wet as the rest of his things and she smiled, softly, at the gesture.

"Don't worry about it," she told him. "It's on the house."

He looked up at her for confirmation and she gave him a nod, waving for him to put away the money. He paused a moment before abandoning the cash to the towel to air dry with everything else. Having made a plate for herself, she grabbed a can of soda from the fridge and took her dinner to the living room. He unfolded the towel and finished breaking down the weapons and piling the loose ammunition. He caught her watching him, as he walked around into the kitchen, before she looked away and picked up the remote for the TV. He picked up a fork to scoop dinner out of the containers.

"Wash your hands first," she told him, as she turned on the television and began flipping channels. She added, muttering, "Lord knows how much lead and dirt are on those."

He gave her a hard stare for a moment, before setting down the fork and box of lo mein and turning to the sink. He would have said something for scolding him, but the low rattle of the pipes behind the wall of the kitchen sink was soothing. He washed his hands, well, before he made a plate and took a seat at the small dining table with his back to the wall so he could watch her and the door. She seemed to have settled on a movie he didn't know and set the remote on the coffee table again. He could see the screen the way he sat. He didn't know how the men came to be in a police line up, but the interviews they gave were of some amusement to him.

She looked over at him, after a quick glance to see everything was still on the counter where he had left it. "You can come over and watch, if you want," she told him, the suggestion sounding slightly hesitant to her own ears, despite her confidence that he wouldn't hurt her.

He wasn't much more assured by the offer. She had turned her attention back to the TV and he studied her for a moment. He was tired and achy, though less stiff after the hot shower. The couch would be more comfortable than the hard wood beneath him. He was curious about the show she was watching, but he knew he was also taking great advantage of her hospitality already.

She was improbably kind, but everything about the last 70-plus years that he could remember made him reluctant to accept it. No kindness or courtesy was ever extended that didn't have a bargain or price attached. A soft, warm place to sleep was earned after months of dehumanizing psychological and physical abuse, a reward for being broken and finally forced into obedience. Enough hot food to fill his stomach came only after a successful mission. Clean, dry clothes were a necessity when he was operational and soiled rags were good enough when he was confined to his cell and left on the cold, concrete floor after a "recalibration". He was given nothing when he was suspended in cryo.

She didn't want his money and she asked for nothing else as payment for the things she gave or did for him. That she invited him to the comparative luxurious comfort of a seat on the sofa to do something as simple as watch a movie caught him off guard. The only thing he could offer in exchange was his alertness and intent to protect the apartment, his sanctuary, and her, whether she realized it or not, and the trade didn't seem fair.

"It's a good movie," she assured him, after a bite of rice and chicken. "I like it, anyway," she added, quietly, with a small shrug.

Her comment made him consider that it might be rude to ignore or decline the offer and something in the back of his mind told him he didn't want to insult his host. He carefully gathered his plate and bottle of water and walked into the living room. He passed her on the far side of the coffee table to sit on the opposite end of the couch, mindful to leave as much space between them as possible and avoid making her feel uncomfortable, if he could. He thought he saw a small smile flinch at her lips, but dismissed it as a tick of her chewing, until she looked down the sofa to him and plainly smiled again.

"When was the last time you watched a movie?" she asked.

He couldn't remember. It had to have been something with Steve. He could recall the time they went to The Roxy across the river, but not the name of what was playing or much of anything about it at all, for that matter. He watched videos, and before that, tapes and reels- reconnaissance on targets, brutal interrogations carried out by HYDRA to pull intel on missions, and some propaganda. He knew he used to enjoy movies, saving up money to treat Steve or take a girl on a date. The question and the thoughts it brought up made him feel uncharacteristically self-conscious and he didn't know how to answer. He shook his head.

She gave him a thoughtful nod, maybe a bit pitying. She realized her face may have betrayed her and threw on a quick grin. "Well," she began, setting her plate down on the coffee table and getting to her feet, "if this is gonna be the first one you see in that long, we better start it from the beginning."

She went around the table to one of the bookcases beside the TV. She ran a quick eye over a large selection of DVD boxes stacked and lined on the lower shelves. She tipped one back into her hand and put the disk into the DVD player. Coming back to her end of the sofa, she took up the remote as she sat and pressed a few buttons to start the movie. She took a drink and folded her legs up onto the couch, tucking them beside her and grabbing her plate again.

"I'm not gonna tell you anything about this," she warned him. "Just pay attention and if you want to get up for something, let me know so I can stop it. You don't want to miss anything."

"What is it?" he asked.

"It's a crime drama, I guess you'd say," she said, a bit curious herself if she had pegged the right genre. "It's called 'The Usual Suspects'. Just watch."

He did. It didn't take long for him to get engrossed in the story. If she hadn't paused the movie to get more food for herself and run downstairs to put the laundry in the dryer, he would have waited until the end to movie. And, when it finally was finished, he sat back, a little in awe. The plot was more complex and the end far more surprising than he had expected, compared to the movies he could recall seeing. He sat there dumbfounded for a moment, his lips parted, but mouth empty, as he looked over at her when the credits went up the screen. She was smiling, eagerly, her thumbnail held between her teeth as she waited for his review.

"So?" she asked. "What did you think?"

"So, that whole time, he-"

"Uh-huh."

"And they didn't-"

"Uh-uh," she shook her head, her smile widening with her eyes, amused.

"Huh," he breached, quietly.

"I know, right?" she laughed. "Isn't it great?"

He blinked, taking an extra moment for the twist to sink in. His brow rose in realization. "Yeah," he said, finally, the hint of a wondering smile pulling at the side of his mouth.

She didn't know why, but his reaction was delightful. Maybe because it was one of her favorite movies and she had hoped he would enjoy it as much as she did. Maybe it was watching it again with possibly one of the few people on the planet who didn't know how it ended. Whatever it was, it made her giggle to herself as she stopped the movie and picked up her empty plate. She stood, holding out a hand to take his dishes for him. He stared at her for a moment, before he realized what she was doing and shyly gave her his plate.

"Did you want more?" she checked. "Still hungry?"

"No," he shook his head, adding a humble 'thank you' as she turned toward the kitchen.

He stood up as well. He went to the counter, inspecting the parts of his weapons, as she rinsed the dishes and put the leftovers in the refrigerator. When she was done, she stood drying her hands on the kitchen towel, watching him reload magazines. She hung up her towel and moved up to the counter to watch him. He stopped, ticking his eyes up to meet hers for a moment before going back to his work.

"Do I want to know where this stuff came from?" she asked, picking up a loose bullet from the pile.

His gaze followed the bullet in her hand, as he skillfully thumbed ammo into the magazine by feel alone. He reached out and gently took the round from her fingertips. "No."

She nodded. "Okay," she agreed, quietly. She watched him another minute more, before walking back around from the kitchen. "Well, I'm going to get your clothes out of the dryer. I'll get you a blanket and a pillow for the couch and then I'm going to bed."

And she did. While he finished loading ammo and reassembled his guns, she went to the basement to retrieve the laundry. When she came back, she disappeared down the hall to her room for a couple minutes. Making a quick stop at the hall closet, she returned with his clothes cleaned and folded and sheets and a pillow for the couch. She handed him his laundry and set about to make up the bedding on the sofa for him. When she went back to the entrance of the hallway to leave for the night, she turned around.

"You can watch something else if you like," she told him. "Help yourself. You know how to work the remote?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

She turned to go to her room, stopping after only a few steps to turn on her heels and come back to the edge of the living room. "Just, whatever you do," she started, pointing to the shelves of movies, "don't watch anything that says Star Wars." He nodded and she pointed a finger at him for his guarantee. "Not without me, okay?"

He nodded again, without knowing why, and she left after saying 'good night'.

He listened for the bedroom door to click shut before he went to sit on the couch. The TV screen in front of him was blue and blank and the apartment was silent. A couple minutes after she had gone, he heard the faint scuffing of something in the bedroom in back. He nodded to himself, as he recognized her bracing the door, a habit he figured he had unwittingly forced her into. He wondered for a moment if it was a nightly ritual or an exercise reserved for just the ones he showed up.

Eyes scanning the apartment, it was quiet again. He sat back into the thick, cushioned back of the sofa and drank in the peace. His gaze fell on the photograph of the fallen soldier on the bookcase. He studied it for a long minute, analyzing ever angle, shadow, and color of his features, checking for any familiarity. Satisfied there was none, he stood to turn off the lamp light of the room at the switch by the door. He picked up his boots from the entry way. Navigating by the glow of the TV screen, he went back to the couch and swung his feet up to lie down with his boots beside him on the floor.

Picking up the remote from the coffee table, his head lolled to the side on his pillow. He took one last look at the uniformed man on the shelf, before he clicked off the television and the room went dark. His eyes adjusting to the new dimness of the room, he considered the possibilities of the picture. He wondered about the circumstances of the man's passing, where he had been that she had once hung a blue star in her window, and then he thought of whether or not he was there because of something he did. The Winter Soldier had set the world on fire, causing wars and skirmishes at borders for decades. The idea that he could somehow have been involved in the reason the star went from blue to gold gave him a pang of guilt.

He shifted uncomfortably on his makeshift bed. He twisted onto a shoulder toward the floor. Pulling a knife from his boot, he straightened back out and rested the knife in his warm hand on his chest. It brought him a calming sense of familiarity and he closed his eyes to sleep.

The small rattle of the antiqued metal door handle of the bedroom down the hall snapped open his eyes. He was still stretched long on the couch, unmoved from where he had fallen asleep. His eyes scanned his surroundings quickly. The apartment was uncharacteristically dark for morning, the light coming in from the windows was muted by the somewhat lessened storm outside. He listened to soft footsteps move up the hall to the bathroom and he loosened his white knuckle grip of the weapon on his chest. After a minute, he heard the toilet flush and faucet run.

The bathroom door clicked open and the light footfall returned to the hall. She padded into the living area, barefoot and a short, cotton robe open over her shorts and tank top. She passed, turning to round into the kitchen, with her eyes pinched and her mouth stretched in a long yawn. She opened the cupboard near the sink, pulling down a plain white coffee mug and snapping on the coffee maker. She turned toward the counter at her side and caught sight of the man laid out in the next room. With a short, frightened gasp, she fumbled backward a step and dropped the cup in her hand to shatter on the kitchen floor.

He sat up straight like a bolt at the sharp sound, one hand on the back of the couch and a foot on the floor to move quickly, if he had to. He held up his flesh hand to steady her, realizing too late that the knife was still curled into his palm loosely by his fore and middle fingers. He saw her startled eyes catch the knife and he swiftly dropped it to the coffee table and showed her his empty hands. He swung his other leg off the couch, keeping his shoulders squared to her.

"I'm sorry," he said, rushing the apology, as she clutched a hand over her stomach to calm herself.

She took a deep breath and shook her head clear. "What are you still doing here?" she asked, flustered, as she folded her robe closed over her and hastily tied a knot in the strip of fabric at her waist. "You're supposed to be gone," she pointed out.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, rising to his feet.

He pulled his shirt smooth and bent over to pick up his knife. He reached low to sheath it back into his boot and crossed the room to the counter. He grabbed the shirts he'd laid over the chair to dry and stuffed them into his backpack. Her breath was finally evening out, as he began to pack away his weapons from the counter. She shook her head, looking down at the broken mug on the floor and he glanced over the counter to see for himself. There was a small knick of red on the top of her foot as she took a careful step back from the shards at her feet. He stopped packing, his eyes stuck on the damage he had caused.

She crouched down on her toes, picking up the broken pieces of ceramic with one hand and stacking them in the other. She stood up and dropped the larger pieces in the garbage, before stepping over the dust and smaller fragments to grab a broom and dust pan from between the wall and refrigerator. She swept up the last of the mess, dumping the pan into the trash, and putting away her tools. She went back to the cupboard and took down a new cup. As an afterthought, she turned back to take out a second one and set them both down on the counter as the coffee dripped. She looked up to notice him still watching her, his hand paused midway into his bag.

"Sorry," she said. "I just wasn't expecting anyone to be here."

He let go of the gun he was placing in his bag and finally pulled out his hand to reach for another. "I didn't mean to be," he admitted, quietly.

"It's okay," she told him, feeling her pulse finally slow and checking on the coffee as the drip slowed to a stop. "You want some coffee?"

He eyed the pot, as she pulled it from the burner. The rich, warm smell was inviting. He hesitated with an answer, not wanting to continue to overstay his welcome. She poured one cup and caught his gaze. She seemed to read the reason for the delay in his face and poured the second cup anyway. She set the mug on the raised counter in front of him, as she turned away for the fridge. He picked up the drink, feeling the heat seep through the ceramic mug in his hand and taking in a curious whiff of the aroma.

"Cream and sugar?" she asked, coming back with a bottle of creamer and dish of sugar.

"No," he said, the edge of the cup already in front of his lips. "Thank you."

She nodded his welcome, adding a spoonful of sugar and a splash of cream to her mug, just enough to subtly change the shade of the liquid. She left the cream on the counter and went back to the fridge to take out a carton of eggs and what was left of a loaf of bread. The cold food on the counter, she dipped into the drawer below the stove for a skillet and turned on the large burner at the front of the range. She gathered plates and utensils to eat with and found a small whisk in a drawer to scramble some eggs.

He watched her quietly, as she cracked eggs and tossed the shells into the garbage. She added a bit of milk and cheese to the skillet with an occasional turn from a spatula while bread was browning in the toaster nearby. He sipped on his coffee, noting how dark and strong it was, a little surprised by a single woman having that taste. He set his backpack on the floor at his feet, but at the ready, his attention drawn to the locked door twice when the footsteps of neighbors on their way to work came too close. By the end of several short minutes, she was handing over a plate of steaming eggs and buttered toast and reaching for the carafe to top off his mug.

He took a seat at the table, with his back angled to the wall and facing the door. Shortly after, she joined him with her own hot breakfast. He took up his fork to eat, but only after she was seated and it didn't escape her notice. It made the corner of her mouth twitch back before she took her own first bite of egg. Their meal was quiet, save for the regular scrape of fork across plate and the settling of a mug on the wooden tabletop.

Nearing the end of her piece of toast, she finally asked, "Where do you go when you're not here?"

His mug to his mouth, he swallowed the last of his drink and averted his eyes back to the table. "Nowhere."

She snickered. "You expect me to think you just live in the alley, like a cat, until you get hungry or it rains?"

"I expect you to not ask again," he told her, biting off a corner of toast. "For your own good."

She blinked, a little taken aback by the answer. It didn't sound like a threat, but his lack of follow up and his purposeful look away was a bit unnerving. "What does that mean?" she asked, after taking a moment to find the courage.

He looked up at her and put down his food. "It means, the less you know, the better," he said. "If anyone-"

"You said no one was watching this place," she interrupted, a bit unsettled and the worry evident in her voice and eyes.

"No one is," he asserted. "But if anyone would come looking...it's best that you know nothing at all. You wouldn't like the way they ask questions."

She was suddenly glad she was done eating. The uneasy twist in her stomach made even the thought of another sip of coffee unpleasant. She watched him finish his food. Standing to clear the table, she took the plate from in front of him to stack on her own and hooked a finger through the loops of their empty mugs.

His eyes followed after her and he felt the need to apologize at seeing her uncomfortable. "I don't want to frighten you."

Rinsing the plates in the sink, she kept her attention on her work. "You didn't," she shook her head, trying to come of as convincing, especially to herself.

He knew she was putting up a front. "You don't have to worry about anyone coming," he said, trying to offer some reassurance. "I wouldn't come anywhere near here if they were following me."

She put the skillet in the sink and filled it with water to soak. Taking the towel from the oven door to dry her hands, she turned to look at him. "Who? Who's 'they'?"

"I told you, don't ask."

She spread the towel back over the handle and her annoyance at his lack of an actual answer stirred up her bravery again. "This isn't your home anymore. It's mine," she pointed out. "Don't tell me where you go. That's fine. But you keep coming here and, if people are following you, I think I have a right to know who."

He leveled an eye at her, sizing her up as she leaned into her hands on the counter. "Everyone," he admitted after some consideration. "CIA, Homeland, SHIELD, HYDRA. Everyone."

The sick feeling dropped her stomach again and she folded her arms across herself to feel better. The answer was bigger than she expected. Her mouth fell open slightly, as she stumbled for what to say. He was patient and quiet.

"You've got some nerve," she decided, finally. "How can you be sure there's not a van full of people outside right now?"

"I'm very good at what I do," he promised, the seriousness of his voice carrying well deserved confidence.

"So you say," she noted, her brow knitting together with lingering doubt, "but what if you're not as good as you think you are?"

He stood up and moved around the table to where he left his backpack on the floor. "I am," he insisted, taking his bag with him to the couch. He pulled on a pair of socks and laced his boots, as he added, "I wouldn't let them find this place."

He stood up and shouldered his bag, seeing her pouring another cup of coffee. She was turned to put the cream and sugar away, as he crossed the room back to the table and picked up his hat. Straightening the cap on his head and pulling the brim low, he made his way to the door without further discussion. She was surprised he wasn't in the room when she turned back around from the refrigerator. Hearing the locks of the door open, she leaned over the counter and see him slipping through the door. The latch locked softly behind him and he was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

"No, I'm almost home," she explained, starting down Clark St. "Email me the days you need and I'll see what I can pick up for you...Mhmm. No problem...I'll talk to you later. B'bye."

She slipped her phone into the back pocket of her scrub pants. It was almost 8:30 and the sun had been gone a couple of hours. Making her way home late from her 12 hour shift at the hospital, she folded her arms across her stomach, tugging the edges of her jacket a little tighter against the breeze. She mentally ran through the possibilities for dinner with what was waiting in the kitchen at home, as she waited at the crosswalk at Hicks. The light changed and she continued on to turn left onto Willow St., the sole evening pedestrian.

Reaching into her jacket pocket for her keys, she was just down the street from her modest apartment in Brooklyn Heights. Her gut told her she wasn't alone and, when she glanced over her shoulder, she flinched seeing a man silently at her heels and a gloved hand reaching for her from behind. In the very same instant, someone else appeared. Covered in a black coat, hat, and jeans, the second man tackled the first to the ground. The men scuffled, as she stumbled backward from the fight. The dark clad man threw a jab down into the first man's jaw, sending the back of his skull bouncing off the sidewalk. Dazed by the blow, the man on his back reached into his coat and pulled a snub nosed revolver from his pocket.

Catching sight of the gun in the streetlight, she backed away again as the second man clamped his hand over the pistol and forced it away from his gut. He pulled the shooter's free hand from his collar and yanked his arm down to pin under his knee. He sent another blow across the downed man's face and the revolver slipped the assailant's grasp and into his control. He backed off of the man to one knee, the one on the ground groggily rolling over with a moan as he turned a shoulder into the concrete to shakily stand. Already on his feet again, the man in the black coat kicked the heel of his boot into the backside of the would be mugger and the broken man tumbled forward, catching himself on his palms and scurrying away as quickly as he could. The dark hero turned to face her.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

Still stunned by what she'd just seen, her mouth stuttered silently, as she tried to process what had happened and what almost had. He pocketed the revolver in his coat and reached out a hand to grab her elbow. The move grounded her and startled her back.

"Sam!" he called for her attention, finally drawing her eyes to him and away from the street behind him. "Are you alright?"

She nodded, understanding coming slowly as her heart still raced. His hand gave her arm a reassuring squeeze and she blinked, suddenly aware of where she was and who she was with. She looked around quickly, checking to see if there was anyone else who saw the commotion.

"Jesus," she hissed, slipping her arm from his hold and grabbing at his wrist. "What the hell are you doing?"

"He’s been following you since the station," he pointed out, as he matched her hurried pace down the street. "You might wanna try a little gratitude."

"Gratitude? For you making a scene like that?" she scolded. "What if someone saw and called the cops? Do you have any idea what would happen if you were caught galavanting around Brooklyn?"

She had rushed ahead of him up the stoop to unlock the front door. He followed behind, hands comfortably in his coat pockets, as he waited for her to work the lock and wave him inside. She gave a worried look up and down the street before she shut the door behind them and started up the stairs to her apartment. Inside, she snapped on the light switch near the door and let out a heavy sigh of relief when she heard him shut and bolt the door. She dropped her keys and purse on the table by the door, stripping her jacket from her shoulders with a firm tug, as she tried to settle down again. Throwing the coat over one of the dining chairs, she turned around to see him, her hands pushing back into her hair as she took a deep breath.

He took the revolver from his pocket, thumbing the latch and flipping the cylinder out to inspect the old Smith & Wesson .38. "Do you have any idea what would happen if you were found harboring a fugitive?" he asked, his question finally answering hers from the street, when he saw she was finally calming down.

He whipped the cylinder closed with a snap of his wrist and returned his newly acquired weapon to his pocket. They frowned frustratedly and ungratefully at each other. She huffed out a breath first.

"I see your point," she admitted.

"I see yours, too," he conceded.

"Fine," she snipped.

"Fine," he shrugged.

Walking to the small dining table, he slipped the straps of his backpack down his arms and swung the bag up to lay on the table. She folded her arms stubbornly over her chest, as she watched him and felt her heartbeat slow. He opened the bag and packed his new revolver away inside before taking off his jacket. Draping the coat over the chair, he looked back up to see her eyeing him.

"You're staying?" she asked.

His hands rested on top of the chair. There was a pause, as his eyes looked down to his coat and then back at her, a little surprised by the question. "Yeah," he told her, just as surprised she didn't know the answer.

"How long this time?"

He shrugged. "The night."

She considered it a moment, her eyes judgmentally flitting to the backpack, thinking of the mugger's gun inside. She looked back at him with a small nod. "Okay," she said, giving her permission as she walked around him to go to her room.

Down the hall, the bedroom door shut and a light slit out from the bottom edge of the door frame. He went into the kitchen and helped himself to a bottle of water from the refrigerator. A quick minute later, she returned in a pair of cotton pants and a sweatshirt. Knotting her hair up at the back of her head, she took a seat on the end of the couch to check the answering machine for messages. He moved in to the living room and sat at the opposite end of the couch, as she listened to a message from the building manager about the chipping tile of the building's entry being re-grouted next week. He took another drink as he eyed the skinned open knuckle of his right hand. A small smirk came to his face, recalling the satisfying feeling of the fracture he felt go through the attempted mugger's jaw on the second punch.

She shifted on the couch, reaching for the television remote when she caught a look at him from the side of her eye. She turned to see him and he looked over at her adjustment. Holding out her hand, she flicked her fingers back, insisting he surrender his hand for inspection. He moved down the couch to reach over to her and she frowned as she tilted his hand in the light.

"Why do you do that?" he asked, noting the gentle warmth of her fingertips.

"What?" she asked, looking up from his hand and letting him go, satisfied with what she saw.

"You always frown at me."

She blinked, thinking for a moment. "I don't-" She stopped, considering he might be right. "I guess, because," she paused again, not knowing. "Because you don't seem to worry about you."

He moved back down to the end of the couch. "It'll be gone by morning," he told her, with a slight tip of his hand to reference the raw skin.

"That doesn't mean you should be so reckless. That's twice now you've come here broken."

He gave her a once over, as she clicked on the television. "I'm not reckless," he corrected her. "That man was going to rob or kill you. Maybe worse."

She looked back over at him and turned her eyes down sheepishly. "Thank you," she conceded, quietly, the sinew of her jaw twitching in a moment of shame.

"You're welcome," he grumbled, before taking a drink, his eyes fixed on the TV.

There was a short silence between them, as commercials ran on the screen ahead. She put the remote aside and asked if he was hungry. He nodded, glancing at her from his periphery when she rose from her seat and headed for the kitchen. He didn't know the show that played on the TV, but he had no reference for anything better to change the channel to while she moved about in the kitchen. Sometime later, she told him dinner was ready and set a plate of green beans, potatoes, and chicken on the counter for him.

He stood up, taking his bottle with him. She came around from the kitchen to the table, as he pulled his bag down to set on the floor. She took a seat, taking up her fork for a bite of her vegetables, as he moved his plate to sit with her. They ate quietly, the TV making a dull background noise to the apartment, as they occasionally glanced up at one another over their meal. Finished with dinner, she cleared their dishes and cleaned the kitchen, before joining him back on the sofa.

She asked if there was a movie he'd like to see and he admitted if there was he wouldn't know it. She thought for a moment before going to the rows of movies. She suggested an older movie he might know and, when she flashed the DVD cover of 'Casablanca' for him to see, she saw a tiny sparkle come to his eyes. He straightened up a little in his seat, as she came back to the couch and turned on the DVD player.

"They sell this today?" he asked, eyes set on the screen, as she navigated the menu.

She nodded. "You can buy just about everything," she told him. "Some are harder to find, but some TV stations play old movies sometimes on a Sunday or at holidays. Some theaters do special showings, once in a blue moon."

"And you like them?"

"I like a lot of them," she smiled, as she hit play. "Don't have much of a social life, as I'm sure you've noticed, so movies are a great way to pass the time."

The soundtrack swelled and the film began, as he gave her a quick look. He hadn't seen her enough to make that judgement about her and he thought it a little self-defeating for her to make such a claim. She was attractive. He sized her up at 5'8", lean, with long auburn hair and hazel eyes. She was obviously smart to work where she did and she struck him as usually confident and put together. He hadn't seen much of her smile, but when he had, it added more charm to her already caring demeanor. It was odd to him that there wouldn't be many gentleman callers taking up her time, let alone to believe she had no social life.

Throughout the movie, she caught glimpses of a thin smile curling at the corner of his mouth. He didn't seem to ever genuinely smile. She was proud of herself for thinking to watch something he would have seen before or, at least, had some reference to. She was even more pleased that he enjoyed it.

When the movie was over, she handed over the remote and left to go down the hallway. She came back with the usual pile of bedding for the couch and set it down at the end of the sofa. She excused herself to bed with an apology that it had been a long day. He accepted with a nod, when she invited him to watch anything else, if he wasn't tired.

He had stood up and was spreading out the sheets over the sofa when he heard the floor creak under her light footsteps coming back up the hall. He looked over his shoulder to see her line herself on the edge of the hallway, one hand between her cheek and the wall to pad the corner and her brow furrowed in thought.

"Earlier tonight," she began, taking a moment to organize her thoughts, "you said that man had been following me since the subway." He nodded and she bit the side of her lip thinking again. "How did you know he was going...to do that?"

"I read people pretty well," he said.

She nodded, brow relaxing a degree, as she accepted the answer. "Were you following me, too?"

He nodded. "Yes." There wasn't a reason to lie.

Again, she nodded to herself. Her eyes turned down for a moment before finding his and hesitating. "Why?"

He straightened up, inhaling deeply through his nose. "I followed you from the hospital," he admitted. "I've done it before."

She leaned away from the wall, her hand still at the corner. "Why would you do that?" she asked, an undertone of worry in her voice coming through that he hadn't heard since the last time he saw her three months ago.

"To make sure you hadn't told anyone about me," he told her. "To make sure it was still safe."

"I haven't," she assured him, with an almost hurt or insulted inflection in the promise. "I wouldn't do that."

"I know," he agreed.

Her hand slipped from the wall's edge, as she turned to go. Before her feet found their way, she turned back. "Thank you," she added, "for stopping him. I'm sorry, for before when I-"

"You're welcome," he said, interrupting the unnecessary apology. He understood how he supposed he upset her by showing up the way he always did.

She opened her mouth to say something else, but changed her mind. Maybe what he did wasn't as important to him as it was to her. She decided to leave it at that. She gave him a nod and small smile in parting thanks, before heading back down the hall to her room. She pulled the sweatshirt over her head, tugging down the bottom of her tank top with one hand as the other tossed the over shirt across the end of the bed. She slipped off her pants and climbed under the covers. Nestling her head back into her pillow, her eyes opened to the closed bedroom door, realizing she hadn't braced the chair in its way. She thought for a long moment, before curling onto her side and tucking the covers to her chin. He had been there three times before without hurting her and, on the fourth, saved her from a mugger. She wasn't worried that he could hurt her this time either.

In the morning, she tiptoed down the hall to the edge of the living room. She peered around the corner into the room. He was still there. Knife in hand and boots still on, he was asleep and the TV screen a bright blue. Walking quietly across the room, she caught sight of the case for Apollo 13 on the coffee table as she pressed the off button on the TV.

The small click of the television roused him. He was unhappy to find he had been sleeping so soundly that she was able to come into the room without his knowing. He quickly moved the knife down to his side, slipping it under his leg and from her view, as she said good morning. He nodded back his greeting, sitting up as she went into the kitchen. He watched over the top of the counter for a moment, as she began to make coffee, before he stood up and stripped the sheets from the couch, balling them up below his pillow. He went to lean on the counter and watched her rummage through the refrigerator.

"Are you hungry?" she asked, standing up and holding the door open.

"I should go," he said, looking over his shoulder for his bag.

"I asked if you were hungry," she pointed out, "not why you were still here."

He turned back to face her, giving her a puzzled look. She shut the refrigerator door, waiting for his answer. When he didn't have one, she gave him one. Going back to the counter, she poured a cup of coffee and set it out in front of him. A thin frown ticked down his lips. A move she missed going back to the fridge for cream for her own coffee.

"I know it upsets you when I show up," he confessed.

She turned around and gave him her own questioning look, wondering if she had done or said something to prompt the surprisingly weighted comment. It did put her off balance the way he appeared in or from the shadows, every few months it seemed, with no rhyme or reason. It was as if just when she managed to not look for him when she came home he came back just to keep her on her toes.

"But," she said, gesturing a hand up and down him, "here you are. What do you get outta this? There's nothing here any more, just walls and floors. Everything's changed from when you knew it."

"It's changed," he agreed, bending his soft fingers around the warmth of his mug and taking a sip. "But it's the only thing that's still here."

"What about your friend?" she asked, sprinkling sugar into her drink. "What about Capt. Rogers? He's still here."

"It's changed," he said, resting his drink and hand on the counter again, watching the steam come off his drink.

"What has?"

"Everything," he told her.

Steve may still be the man he was before, but he wasn't the man Steve knew. Physically and mentally broken, he wasn't sure how much of himself was left. He had nightmares, flashbacks about the war and things he did for HYDRA; confusing memories about the torture and experiments done to him. A lot had come back to him, but he was still piecing things together. He didn't feel like himself. He was harder and more distrusting than he would have ever thought he could be. The truth was, he was afraid to face Steve. Afraid of his judgement as much as, if not more than, he was afraid of the consequences for everything he had done as The Winter Soldier. The truth was, when all those fears and nightmares caught up with him, this place was the only place he could center himself, the only place he felt comfortable when it was all too much again, and the only time he could sleep soundly through the night.

"Have you tried to contact him?" she wondered.

He looked up at her again. "I'm not his friend anymore. He doesn't know me anymore."

The bitterness of his response made her frown. "But have you tried?"

"No," he shook his head.

"Maybe if you-"

"No," he repeated, firmly, cutting her off.

She took a drink of coffee, as a distraction to the tension that had come to the room. After the pause, she tried again. "I just mean, you grew up together, you were best friends. How do you know he's not your friend still?"

"Because of everything I've done," he told her. "Because I tried to kill him."

"You saved his life," she reminded him.

He swallowed hard. He knew that one act wasn't enough to make up for everything else he had done. "It doesn't matter."

"Of course it does," she earnestly insisted.

"Doing one thing right doesn't make up for a lifetime of wrong," he corrected.

She watched, as he pushed away the cup of coffee and turned away. He pulled his coat from the back of the chair and grabbed the top of his backpack.

"Where are you going?" she asked, immediately worried that she'd said something to offend him.

"Thanks for the coffee," he said, ignoring her question and heading for the door.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-" she said after him, but he was already gone.

She watched the door for a minute, waiting to see if he came back. When he didn't, she took his mug from off the counter and poured it down the sink. She took her own drink into the living room with her and sat down on the couch with a heavy sigh. She wondered for several minutes about him, mostly how long it would be before he showed up again or, now, if he would. She felt bad for the way the morning ended. She hadn't meant to make him angry or send him away. For a brief moment, she thought about how a person would go about getting in touch with Captain Rogers. A thought that left her as quickly as it came. She had promised not to tell anyone.

...

She didn't realize she had nodded off on the couch, the long last few days at work catching up with her. When her eyes fluttered open slowly, there was a dull crick in her neck from how she had slumped into the corner of the chair. The apartment was a mix of pale oranges and yellows, the last pallet of the evening sun. She closed the magazine that had slipped from her lap and rubbed at her neck. There was a knock at the door and she was suddenly awake, realizing that an earlier knock was probably what woke her in the first place.

She rose from the chair and hurried to the door, winking to check the peep hole. She settled back on her heels with a curious huff. Throwing open the bolts, she stepped back to open the door wide enough to peer around. Her eyes ran down him, his head bowed slightly under the low brim of his ball cap and hands tucked casually in his jacket pockets. His eyes were on hers when they came back to level.

"That's a new record between visits," she quipped, backing away and giving him room to come in.

He made an unintelligible growl at her comment, as he sided through the door, casting a glance behind him to the hallway. He moved into the open space of the living room, watching as she shut and locked the door again. She turned around, folding her arms and looking him over again.

"Didn't expect you back so soon," she admitted, with a small jut of her chin his way. "Forget something?"

He gave her an acknowledging nod. "I wanted to apologize," he offered, quietly. He saw the shift in her posture, the subtle rise of her brow in surprise and shift of her weight to balance comfortably on both feet instead of the tension on one hip. Her shoulders dropped a fraction when he went on, saying, "You were trying to help. I understand that now."

She nodded. "I didn't mean anything by it," she told him. "I just thought, you know, maybe if you spoke to him, he could help you. You can't really expect to stay on the run forever." The silence from him at her suggestion was a bit startling and she inhaled deeply. "Can you?" she wondered.

She saw him swallow and her arms tightened across herself. There was a heavy air in the quiet apartment. She took a small step forward and, even though he had nothing to fear from her, he reflexively hardened. He was aware of the fists that had tightened in his pockets and the muscles that flexed throughout his limbs. It took a conscious effort to stop his foot from shifting back to take a defensive posture. She didn't seem to notice the struggle and he breathed in slow and evenly to restrain any other reaction.

"Jesus Christ," she muttered, with an almost imperceptible shake of her head. "How could a person live like that?" She blinked, giving her own answer. "You can't."

"It beats the alternative," he told her.

She distractedly passed by him to sit on the couch. "Would it really be so bad?" she asked. "Your friend, Captain Rogers, wouldn't he help you? I mean, whatever you did wrong, you said they made you do those things. It was them. It was HYDRA. It's their fault, not yours. They would blame them."

He had twisted to keep facing her when she'd moved and looked down at her now, with a shake of his head. "The American people don't blame a government or a regime," he explained. "They don't imprison or execute an organization. They find a figurehead; a scapegoat. That's who they hang. They've never grasped the scope of evil. They need a face to understand it." His head ticked slightly in a small nod, understanding his fate. "I'm the face the people will see. I'm the one they'll hang in place of HYDRA."

She shook her head, not understanding. Her brow pulled down, with a disappointed kind of worry, as she asked him, "Do you hear yourself?" She didn't wait for an answer. "You say 'the American people' like you aren't one of us." She saw the hard swallow, a betraying reflex she was coming to find heartbreaking the more she saw it. "You're Bucky Barnes."

"Things changed," he quietly insisted.

"Time passed," she agreed, "and people did things to you, yes, but we are who we are. You have a name. This used to be your home, this little apartment in Brooklyn. The few times you've come back here, I've seen and heard you remember things. Maybe you haven't found it all, but it's still you." His head tipped back, with the rise of his chest at the deep breath he took in, and he looked a little further down his nose at her as she went on. "There's shows and documentaries about you. The American people see you in old footage with Steve Rogers and remember you as one of our own; as a war hero, with him."

"I was never a hero," he corrected her, his head coming down for the weight of his gaze to emphasize the point.

"You saved lives," she reminded him. "You and the Howling Commandos, you changed the tide of the war. Hundreds- Thousands of men went home to their families because the things you did broke the strength of the Axis. Whole cities are still standing and families lived together in their homes, because you and Captain Rogers and the others fought to protect them. There aren't many bigger heroes than you."

"Don't romanticize it," he spat, the words almost a growl. "You're right, I do remember more stuff now; where I was, what I did. Whatever you see in those films isn't what that war was. It was chaos. Everyday was a fresh hell of gore and misery and pain. Walking over a guy you knew's body, split open and frozen in Bastogne. Trading shots from a foxhole with your buddy dead beside you all night, just for the sun to come up and show you the bits of his brain 'n skull you got splattered on your uniform and face. That's who you remember. That's who talks to you at night, not those guys who went home. Those men that died, that's your heroes. Not me.

"I wasn't doing it for some city or family," he scoffed. "I signed up for the money, tryin' to get by. None of us knew there'd be a second war," he scoffed. "And I kept doin' it for me, so I could go home and I could get Steve home with me. I did it to protect him and keep his hands clean. I did the dirty work a decent guy like him shouldn't have to. He shouldn'ta been there in the first place. I did it for him and the Commandos, and god damn if I wasn't good at it. That's all I meant to do and then they made me do it for HYDRA.

"There's no saving anybody," he shook his head, angry at himself. "There was no saving myself. They took everything and replaced it. When I'd fight, when I'd get something back, they'd take it away all over again. It doesn't matter how many days or months you know you fought, how hard you tried to hold on. In the end, all they let your remember was that they broke you and you lost and you just hoped they'd finally let you die. But they didn't. It just kept going and you always lost. If there was anything to save, they took it, they broke it down, and they mutilated it into this." His eyes flicked down to the metal hand he opened from his pocket. "A ghost story with a real monster in the shadows. That's what I've been, not a hero. That's all I've ever been. Dirty hands for the Army and Steve and then HYDRA, covered in blood that never dries. And that's why I can't stop running. It ain't much of a life, but it's all I got left."

"If you're such an awful person," she quietly began, after a moment to absorb what he'd said, "why would you come back here just to apologize?"

His eyes ran over her face, reading the encouragement and hopefulness behind the question. He snorted with a sneer, giving her a small shake of his head. It was the closest thing she'd heard to a laugh from him.

"I guess I owe you that much," he suggested.

"I'm sorry," she offered. "I didn't mean to upset you."

She was kind to a fault. Selfless and sympathetic, her humility was almost unbelievable. Sparing judgment for others with noses much higher in the air to pass, opening her home to a stranger with blood on his hands, and apologizing when she'd done no wrong, she didn't deserve the risk he exposed her to by coming there. He needed to go farther away this time, to avoid the temptation to keep coming back, for both their sakes.

He shook his downturned head. "I know the trouble I gave you and, in your own way, you were never anything but kind to me. I'm not gonna bother you anymore."

She blinked, her mind stalling with her breath for a moment until his turn toward the door brought her back. "Wh- Wait. What?" she managed to fumble, as he reached the door.

"I appreciate it," he said, looking over his shoulder at her, "you letting me have these nights here. It helped more than you know. And I'm sorry for scaring you, the broken mug, stealing from you. All of it."

"I thought you said it was 'borrowing'," she gently quipped, a grin pulling up one side of her mouth.

"Yeah," he nodded, the faint sound of a short laugh coming out on the end of a breath, a little awestruck by her humor and understanding again.

The sound made her smile. "So, that's it?" she asked. "No more breaking in? No more guns on the counter and following people?"

"It was a bad idea," he admitted, "coming back here as much as I did. Ain't nothing but luck that they didn't find me here. Luck always runs out and I've been pushing mine too much. I don't care whose it is, I'm not going back to a cage."

Lost for what else to do, she shrugged. "Well, then, I guess I'll wish you more luck," she figured.

"Thanks," he nodded.

His metal hand grabbed the doorknob and she heard the latch click open from the frame. She stood up, as he started to pull the door open, crossing the room to lock up after him. He stepped over the threshold, turning back to pull the door shut behind him, catching sight of her coming and the easy smile she wore.

"You sure you don't wanna use the fire escape?" she offered, thumbing over her shoulder toward the window. "Ya know, for old times' sake."

There it was again, the hint of amusement on his breath and the thin smile that she had seen just a handful of times, but enough to call familiar. His eyes ticked past her shoulder to the living room window. Her brow wagged up in a question, waiting to see his response.

"No thanks," he said. "I'll take my chances with the stairs, this time."

"Interesting choice," she noted, with a thoughtful pout. "Hey," she added. "Don't worry. You're secret's safe with me."

He gave her a solemn nod. "I know."

"Be careful."

"I will."

He left. This time she doubted she'd ever see him again.


End file.
